


Wild Nights Should Be Our Luxury

by Castillon02



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bond has a dirty mind, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:37:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4307124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/pseuds/Castillon02
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q decides that he and Bond should start having sex. Bond avoids choking to death on cannelloni.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild Nights Should Be Our Luxury

Underneath the table, Q slid his socked toes up and down the back of Bond’s calf, a smooth little tickle of affection that made Bond stare even as a jolt of heat ignited low in his belly. 

“We should have sex,” Q said. His green eyes were warm under the restaurant’s dim lighting and creased at the corners in amused anticipation of Bond’s reaction. Little minx. 

Bond deliberately removed the fork from his mouth and swallowed his mouthful of cannelloni. “Should we?” he asked, and directed his steadiest gaze at Q’s dilated pupils. 

Q refused to look away. “If you think you’re ready for it,” he said, raising a challenging eyebrow, the curve of his mouth deepening. 

Bond took a moment to consider whether he was, in fact, ready for it. He hadn’t needed to take any painkillers today, and he made a habit of jerking off before his occasions with Q; his standing and staying powers weren’t cause for concern. On the other hand, Bond hadn’t managed to live to almost-retirement by failing to question pattern deviations. For eight months now, they’d enjoyed some excellent cuddling and the occasional snog; Q simply hadn’t seemed comfortable with anything else. Unless he wanted to be thinking like a paranoid assassin instead of concentrating on Q, he’d have to find out what had changed. 

“Will you still respect me in the morning, dear?” Bond asked, and dropped his chin onto one hand, leaning in and tilting his head inquisitively.

Q leaned forward, mirroring Bond’s posture. He was constantly doing that, apparently naturally. Bond did it as a matter of training, and in the beginning they’d had a bit of shuffling body language, like dance partners figuring out who was going to lead. They’d eventually made a game out of it where they tried to get the other person to, for instance, subconsciously touch their nose. Or other body parts. Noses, foreheads, elbows, bellies, thighs--on one memorable occasion, Q had been wearing a low-necked nightshirt, and Bond had got him to glide his fingers seductively over his jugular notch, that lovely little divot where neck met collarbone.  

They’d never done cocks, though--Bond hadn’t quite dared--and what _would_ that be like, having the permission to masturbate in front of Q, to tease him into doing it too, provided he felt like having a go, and see what made him lose it? Would he let Bond tell him how to do it? Would the sound of Bond’s voice get him off, or would it be the look of Bond’s hands on himself that was more interesting to him? 

“Bond,” Q said in a dry tone that indicated he’d noticed Bond’s wandering attention.  

Bond jerked back to himself. He ate another forkful of pasta without tasting it and recalled how unanticipated this sex thing was to begin with. “I asked a question,” he reminded Q. He had to know what had changed. 

“I’ll still respect you in the morning,” Q assured him, his voice a little lower now that it had lost its teasing edge. He rested his hand on the table in a clear invitation. 

Bond threaded their fingers together and returned the pleased smile that Q gave him. 

“There hasn’t been any one big event,” Q said with a little duck of his head. “Neither of us has almost died and made me realize, ‘Dear me, our time is quite limited, better start shagging my boyfriend before someone shuffles off,’ or anything of a similarly dramatic nature. It’s just been…” Q shrugged and squeezed Bond’s hand. “I trust you. It just seemed like the right time to say it.” 

“The right time to see a spit-take?” Bond asked with narrowed eyes. 

Q cocked his head and raised both eyebrows, giving Bond his best faux-innocent look. It made him look like a guilty puppy. “A complete coincidence.”  

“All right then,” Bond said, counting the steps of an approaching figure out of the corner of his eye. Four...three… “Let’s do it.” Two...one… “Let’s have sex.” 

The server who’d just begun to reach out for Q’s glass of water to refill it didn’t even blink. 

Q, on the other hand, blossomed into a full-on blush that started with the red tips of his ears and moved all the way down his neck in pale pink splotches. 

Q would either be very interested in or completely turned off by exhibitionism, Bond thought. 

The nine samples of gelato that Q ordered after they finished their meal were clearly revenge, but it was ill thought-out, because Bond discovered a miraculous new ability to make Q blink and blush just by timing his eye contact with the moments when Q was licking his spoon or his lips. 

“I can fit an entire cock down my throat, you know,” Q finally said at one point with his eyebrows scrunched together and a scowl pulling at his pink face. He was clearly irritated about this onset of self-consciousness. 

“Of course you can, dear,” Bond said in a soothing voice. “I believe you.” He mimed a very small cock with his fingers.  

Q grinned a toothy kind of grin that Bond had seen precede property damage, gave him the old two-finger salute, and stuck almost the entire steel spoon down his throat for five seconds (Bond counted) without even a hint of gagging. “I never give empty threats,” he said, a little raspily, after pulling the spoon out. 

“Your voice sounds good like that,” Bond said, because it did. He watched the blush, which had almost disappeared in Q’s fit of fellatic pique, reappear like a magic trick. 

It _was_ rather mysterious, this self-consciousness of Q’s, especially given that in a period of boring surveillance Q had once given an increasingly sarcastic lecture about the porno that one of Bond’s targets had been watching. It had come with a detailed analysis of sexual technique as well as criticisms from psychoanalytic, feminist, and even mathematical perspectives. 

( _“That goes against_ several _laws of physics, Bond!”_ ) 

Having considered the matter, Bond came to the conclusion that Q was hiding something. Not a stiletto in his pocket or anything to do with work, but something more personal. Nerves? Perhaps the gelato had been procrastination as well as vengeance. Bond toned down the sexual teasing after that realization, and replaced it with whatever kinds of silliness he could get Q to indulge in, including an old game of theirs called “Name this abstract art piece.” It involved trying to squeeze as much meaning as possible out of the shape of (in this case) a crumpled cloth napkin. 

“‘Blue-balled power couple waiting to get laid,’” Q suggested, this time meeting Bond’s eyes without blushing. “This large bulge here is indicative of the amount of unresolved sexual tension they’d like to satisfy. And keep satisfying. Even though one of them isn’t very used to satisfying himself in the company of another person instead of with something extremely well-designed.” 

Ah, Bond thought. So that was it. Well, that wasn’t any kind of problem. 

Q glanced down and then back up again, measuring Bond’s reaction. 

“‘Partners don’t have to stress about sex,’” Bond countered, and gave him a fond look. “There are always going to be peaks and valleys, like here and here,” he gestured back at the crumpled napkin, “and it takes time and a few wrinkles before you can learn to fold yourselves together neatly. Fortunately, when you’re with the right person, the process of putting the stains in is nearly always enjoyable.” He leered the most exaggerated leer in his arsenal, and felt a warm flush of success run through him when Q laughed.

“Well, you’ve got the wrinkles down,” Q said wryly, but he also nudged Bond’s foot with his own and gave Bond a pleased, almost shy look from under his lashes before pushing his chair out and standing. “If it’s going to take time, we might as well get started,” he said, holding one hand out and scratching his nose with the other. 

Bond took it. “I’m ready when you are,” he said, and scratched his nose back at Q. He didn’t even have to try to mirror the smile that sprang onto Q’s face. 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title is from the Emily Dickinson poem. "Might I but moor - tonight -/In thee!" indeed, haha. 
> 
> Thank you to Foppossumtrishaa (foppossumtrishaa.tumblr.com) for a great beta, and especially for helping me out with my pacing and transitions; to Snowyleopardess for helping me straighten out my opening paragraphs; and to dhampir72, for helping me get into writing for 00Q in the first place and for volunteering to beta this when I wasn't sure anyone else would. ^ ^
> 
> Concrit would be lovely; I'm always looking to improve. Thank you for reading!


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